


The Very First Page

by rubycrowned



Category: 1D - Fandom, One Direction, One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, ziam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:49:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubycrowned/pseuds/rubycrowned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My thoughts will echo your name until I see you again. These are the words I held back as I was leaving too soon; I was enchanted to meet you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Very First Page

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so I've had it written in my to-do list forever that I wanted to write a one-shot based around 'Enchanted' by Taylor Swift, and I'd originally thought Larry for it but I so wanted to write some Ziam that wasn't angst and tears and endless misery so this is the result. It took me way longer than I thought it would and I'm not sure what I think exactly but I'm done with it, here it is, take it or leave it (no pls, be kind, I really did try)

The lights are bright, and hot, and it’s uncomfortable in the stupid full, black, three-piece suit he’s been given to wear, but it’s a charity event, with the epitome of New York wealth, so what did Liam expect? And he wasn’t going to turn down a gig – even one which mostly involved crooning to a bunch of overdressed, middle-aged (Liam was being kind) women – especially when the pay was this good.

A few hours of discomfort were more than worth it.

The songs are all old covers, songs Liam could sing in his sleep, and so he finds his mind, and eyes, wandering once the band are settled into the set and his sight has become somewhat adjusted to the glare from the poorly positioned lighting.

It doesn’t look all that interesting really; a whole load of rich folk schmoozing more than anything. It makes Liam wonder whether any of them even know which charity they’re supposed to be there supporting (for the record it was to fund research into Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy, aka DMD, the world’s most common lethal genetic disease; Liam had wanted to investigate when he took the job). How many just saw it as another night out, an excuse to dress up rather than an opportunity to help someone, many someones.

But he pushes past those thoughts as his eyes fall on a trio of young men. They can’t be much older than Liam’s 20 years, and they stand out. Yes, because of their age, but also their complete nonchalance for the scene surrounding them. Everyone else there is out to impress someone, ready to show each other up (in style, in man, in cheque book).  _They_  look more like they are here as a joke, for their own amusement, not-so-discreetly pointing towards a particularly comedic sight. And in doing so, they succeed in outshining everyone else there. Liam picks them as trust-fund brats, maybe sent in place of a father or mother who hadn’t the time or inclination for another charity bash.

Two of the lads are so close they look like they aren’t just joined at the hip, but along their entire torso; each blending into the other. The taller has a mess of unruly curls which seem to give him a slightly hyperactive air, the other with carefully-careless feathered hair and a wicked smirk which tugs at Liam’s own lips. He doesn’t think they mean to (or maybe they do), but they exude a vibe which just screams _we are having the time of our lives, we don’t care who sees, and don’t you wish you were part of it_. And Liam does.

But it is the third member of the small group which really grabs Liam’s attention, holds it. This one seems...more serious, almost brooding; but the longer Liam watches, the more he believes that it’s a practiced air, something he consciously presents to keep others out rather than because he really is sullen. He catches him on more than one occasion shaking his heavily styled quiff at the antics of his companions, a large smile plastered almost unwillingly across his face.

Desire stabs low in Liam’s gut.

***

Zayn isn’t really all that sure why they were there, if he’s honest. Harry and Lou had thought it’d be a great joke to come and flirt with all the old ladies who attended these events, to then revel in the looks they received when they inevitably started making out with each other a bottle or two of champagne later. For some reason, Zayn was part of this plan, although he isn’t sure where he fits in. He certainly isn’t going to be snogging either of those two.

At the moment, all three of them are borderline dawdling around the makeshift stage which holds one of those bands who mostly just cover old songs, do requests and the like. Zayn supposes they can’t be too awful; they haven’t yet made him look up, cringing, as they mutilate one of his favourite classics.

He starts to pay the band more attention once Louis and Harry begin to lose focus on anything or one outside of their immediate vicinity. Zayn, about two feet away, is included in the exclusion. He gives them about half an hour before he expects it to begin getting embarrassing (for him –  _nothing_  ever seems to phase those two). Not that there’s anyone to bet against him, and if he dared mention it aloud, no doubt Louis would actually hear him and consider it a challenge.

The guitarist is standing closest to where Zayn and his friends are, off to the side. He is blonde and near bouncing on his feet as he plays. He has an infectious energy, and Zayn thinks that maybe he’d be someone he’d like to know; someone who seemed so genuinely happy with what he had, here and now at least (and Zayn doesn’t know whether he has little or a lot, but it’s not something he sees much of from where he stands).

His eyes drag over to the lead singer though when he begins another song.  _Closing time, open all the doors and let you out into the world_ ; the familiar opening to the Semisonic track isn’t the same style as most of the other songs played tonight, and Zayn has to wonder whether it was entirely planned to be part of their line up or not, but the guy is nailing it.

Zayn guesses him to be about his age, maybe a little younger, possibly not yet legal to join him in sipping at the tall flutes of champagne Zayn idly toys with (not that it ever stopped Harry) as he lazily looks up and down the singer’s decidedly fit body. His suit, while somewhat ill-fitting – (probably lent to him for the occasion, Zayn surmises) still manages to cling to him at most of the oh-so-right places, and begs the question as to what the hidden parts are like. His blonde-ish brown hair is short, although Zayn suspects it might have been longer; the way the other boy occasionally runs his hand over his head suggests he is used to there being a greater length for his fingers to pass through.

Still enough to tug on though.

And when he belts out the chorus ( _I know who I want to take me home_ ), Zayn almost swears that dark eyes are focused on him, and only him. And that can’t be right, but it is still almost enough for him to lose that projected indifference which has, over time, taught the other frequenters of such occasions from coming too close (he doesn’t dislike them, even if he will poke fun with Harry and Lou; he just never knows what to  _say_ , and they can’t know that, better to think him stand-offish and proud).

And when the band packs up their gear at the song’s conclusion (because that song always did make the best end to any night, even though, in this case, they were soon to be followed by a more classical quartet) and each moves off the stage to mingle with their audience, to allow polite but insincere compliments on their performance, and  _he_  starts to move straight towards Zayn, Zayn’s eyes widen in slight panic.

***

It’s not the usual way they would end their act, but Liam doesn’t quite care enough to stop himself, so between songs he catches Niall’s eyes and mouths a questioning “ _Closing Time?_ ” to his friend, and then to the others when he receives a half-shrug and a raised eyebrow in a nod of confused approval.

And although he tries not to (weakly, it must be admitted), Liam can’t help but look over at the dark haired boy as he sings (and the words ring true, resolution beginning to form in his mind). He almost falters when he sees him staring straight back, drinking him in in a way which is no longer indifference, anything but (even if it’s only in the slightest change in his expression, a tightening in his posture; why can Liam even see these alterations?). Liam can only belt out the lines harder, willing the barely-veiled intentions to be communicated.

And although he tries not to (this time that’s simply a lie), Liam can’t help but pat Niall a well done on the shoulder afterwards as they make their way offstage, and make a path directly for the three boys stood there; two now almost entirely unaware to their surroundings, the other staring wide-eyed (and he can’t be scared, can he?) back at Liam as the distance closes fast.

It’s not like Liam does this a lot, so he can’t say he’s not nervous, but he’s come this far, and this guy – still there is the vestige of a smirk curling those lips, and they’re soft and red and distracting.

“Hi,” Liam extends a hand towards the other boy, “Liam Payne. I hope you enjoyed the performance.”

***

“Liam,” Zayn can’t help smiling, enjoying the way it rolled around his mouth and off his tongue (and he was British too; he hadn’t been expecting that, but god was it hot), “Zayn. Malik.”

***

_Lee-yum_.

He’s never loved hearing someone say his name  _quite_ so much, and Liam finds himself mirroring the smile which had blossomed on the dark-haired boy’s face.  _Zayn’s_  face.

The name suits him, Liam thinks. Something just a little different, something which buzzes slightly on the tip of your tongue.

Something Liam quite likes the idea of rolling in and around his mouth.

“Pleasure to meet you, Zayn,” Liam feels like his grin is dripping off of every syllable and doesn’t feel any need to hide it. His sir name is floating around Liam’s head, seeming to ring a bell or two, but he can’t quite place it, and doesn’t really think it matters to what he thinks of the person before him.

“Enchanted, I’m sure,” Zayn agrees, and then nods his head towards the two standing behind him, whispering intently in each other’s ears, “And those two lovebirds are Harry and Louis.”

He waits a moment, but when neither of the boys seems to have any intention of stirring at the sound of their names, Zayn continues, “The taller one’s Harry, but I don’t think you’ll need to know since the royal tits are planning on gracing us with their attention again tonight.”

***

Liam laughs, and it makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“You’re performance really was great, though. They’re often so boring at these things. But that last song,” Zayn pauses, not wanting to come on too strong, “it was, I guess it was more my style.”

The other boy flushes slightly at the compliment, and Zayn wishes he could make him do it again.

“Thank you, I’m glad, really glad you-”

“Liam!”

The blonde guitarist from earlier runs up to join them, sliding an arm tightly around Liam’s shoulder’s.

“Niall, hey. This is Zayn. Zayn, meet Niall, he’s my-”

Zayn never got to find out what Niall was exactly, the Irishman (his accent was a dead giveaway, even from the single word he had so far uttered) interrupting Liam.

“Hi, Zayn, great to meet you, I’m sure. But, Li, we really should be heading off, I think. Like, right now, yeah?”

Liam looks almost as puzzled as Zayn feels, and Zayn would like to admire the way his brows furrow in his confusion, but he’s too busy being overwhelmed by the feeling of Liam’s hand against his; a brief handshake, as he is being dragged off by Niall in the direction of the exit, only having time to half-yell over his shoulder “It was nice meeting you, Zayn,” as he is tugged through the door.

“You too,” Zayn mutters weakly, still staring at the space Liam had filled not a minute before.

***

“What the fuck are you up to, Niall?” Liam all but hisses at his friend once they’re outside.

“Sorry, mate. Sorry to mess up whatever that was you had going there with-”

“I was  _trying_  to chat him up, you plonker. Zayn Malik is fit as anything, and I think he might’ve even liked me back but nooo...”

“Wait. Zayn  _Malik_. As in,  _the_  Maliks? As in runs the import of over half America’s gold trade? Wow, you sure know how to pick ‘em, I’ll give you that. Even more sorry I interrupted now, but we sorta really had to be getting outta there.”

Liam  _knew_ that name had sounded familiar, he didn’t realise Niall was so interested in that sort of thing, though. Jeez, Zayn really  _was_  a rich kid, although Liam has a feeling he’s read somewhere that, since a recent scandal involving  _Mr_. Malik, Zayn had been taking a pretty hands on role in the business himself.

“Too right. You’d better be, you pillock. Why’d we have to leave, anyhow?”

Niall flushes a little under the street lights. “Well...did you see the great big cake on the table back there? And you remember how they  _told_  us that we could feel free to have a bit of a feed after the gig was done?” Liam has a feeling he can already see where this story is going. He mumbles an  _uh-huh_  and covers his face with a palm, as if it might prevent what he’s fairly sure is coming.

“Well  _apparently_ , the cake was supposed to be cut by some British dignitary later on tonight as some big deal ceremony thing or something. And they don’t like it too much if you take it upon yourself to hurry up and do the job for them...apparently not even if you explain that you  _are_  British, so it’s fine, really,” Liam can sense Niall grimacing, even from behind the sanctuary of his hand, “maybe even especially then...”

“Oh my god.  _Niall_ , you idiot!” Liam attempts to lighten the insult with a ruffle of the blonde mop of hair, giving his head a final teasing shove as he leaves off (he should, after all, be unsurprised by this sort of behaviour by now). “Twat.”

They stand in amicable silence for a moment, Niall’s shoulder knocking Liam’s in apology.

“Yeah, yeah. You big git,” Liam shakes his head as he hails a passing-by cab and they climb in, “Good thing I like you. God knows why.”

***

_Idiot._

You could officially qualify whatever it is that Zayn’s doing as sulking now.

Right on schedule, Lou had started sucking lovebites up and down Harry’s neck, leaving Zayn to stand awkwardly and listen to his friends’ low chuckles and breathy sighs as they edge slightly (but not really) into the corner and out of sight.

But, for once, Zayn is less focused on the embarrassments he calls friends and more on  _how could he be so stupid?_  He couldn’t say for certain, but he likes to think that there was something between him and Liam, for that short minute (if that really, but  _still_ ) before he abruptly up and left. Zayn should have at least asked for his number, slipped Liam his own.

Zayn  _had_  run out after Liam and Niall only a couple minutes after they had left, no longer struck still by their sudden departure, but a yellow cab was already pulling off the curb as Zayn took the stairs at a run; if anyone had seen his manic waving then they sure hadn’t paid him any mind.

So now Zayn is sulking.

It’s a behaviour he less than admires in others, but Zayn can’t seem to stop himself as he rubs his thumb in circles over the area where Liam’s hand had grasped his. It’s silly, ridiculous, but Zayn can almost swear he still feels a slight burn where they’d touched. And it frustrates him because Zayn is  _not_  that guy, not someone who swoons and falls at another person’s feet. He is the one that causes the swooning thank-you-very-much, all brooding eyes and long lashes sending hearts a flutter for east coast to west (and he keeps telling himself that, but it doesn’t make it true for  _Liam_ ).

He must sit there for close to half an hour before it hits him, and then he’s tempted to actually hit himself for not realising sooner.

Liam and Niall were here as a performance at the DMD fundraiser. Performers had to be hired. Had to be organised, paid,  _contacted_.

Someone had to have the contact details for Liam, and being one of the more high-profile events, Zayn is fairly certain who would have been put in charge of organising the acts.

Simon.

***

Liam is most definitely not wallowing.

He didn’t stare sullenly out the window the entire trip home, even though he’d forgiven Niall (mostly), and he most definitely didn’t change straight into his comfiest, most ratty sweatpants and t-shirt as soon as he said goodbye to his mate on the landing and gotten inside his apartment.

He also hadn’t ordered an entire pizza for himself which he would refuse to share with Niall if he came round later, and he isn’t now sitting back on the sofa watching the intro to  _The Lion King_  for the 119thtime.

He isn’t wallowing, and he  _isn’t_ thinking about boys with seductive eyelashes and names which rhyme with Payne.

***

It took some wheedling, and a lot of charm (and another cheque to match the Malik’s already sizeable donation to the night’s cause), but Zayn had managed to convince Simon to give him the contact address for the band; one which, was supposedly the lead singer’s.

Zayn eyes the scrawled address on the napkin in his hand, checking the address for at least the twentieth time in the five minutes he’s been sitting in the back of his car. His driver gave him a slight raise of an eyebrow when Zayn gave him the address, but didn’t say a word.

The trip isn’t long, but it’s plenty long enough for doubts to start to creep into Zayn’s mind and by the time they reach the apartment complex, Zayn is more than a little nervous.

What if he read the situation wrong?

He climbs the stairs to the third floor, the elevator apparently out of order.

Zayn hadn’t missed the close contact between Liam and Niall; the grip on the shoulder, the easy way Niall’s hand had fallen to encircle Liam’s wrist as he pulled him away from Zayn; the way Liam had locked their fingers into a more comfortable position once he started moving  _with_  the Irishman rather than dragged  _by_.

What kind of person bribes someone to get the address of a guy he literally talked to for less than sixty seconds. He’s turning into a creep, a stalker.

He’s at the door.

***

Mufasa’s just been thrown off the edge of the cliff by Scar, and Liam’s getting a little emotional (and by a little, he means you could flood an ocean with the tears running off his face right now) when there’s a knock on the door.

It must be the pizza guy again (he forgot Liam’s garlic bread, but Liam couldn’t bring himself to complain – he seemed like a nice guy).

***

What if he’s in love with Niall and Zayn was just someone to talk to because he’d been paying obvious attention to their music?

What if Liam’s  _straight_?

What if-

The door opens.

Liam.

***

Zayn.

***

And Zayn barely has time to register the fact that Liam’s nose is red and his eyes seem a little bloodshot before he’s overwhelmed by the sensory impact that is Liam kissing him.

And his lips are pressed hard against his own, teeth clack almost painfully for a second before they find a rhythm; Liam is anything but hesitant, biting not-quite-softly on Zayn’s lower lip, then licking into his mouth just enough to have Zayn moaning for more.

Not straight then.

***

Liam isn’t sure what came over him in that second after opening the door to find Zayn, still in his tightly fitting tux; tie loosened ever so casually to allow a peek at golden skin, a hint of collarbone.

He is sure that right now, as he grapples with Zayn’s shirt in an effort to untuck it, to run hands over the warm skin of his back, Zayn is kissing him back.

Zayn is looking at him with lust-blown pupils, tugging on the short curls at the back of Liam’s neck (and god, why did he cut it, when Zayn could be wrapping his fingers in it right now). And Zayn is sucking on his tongue in a way which makes Liam forget for just a second what he’s trying to do to Zayn’s shirt.

“WA-HEY. Look who’s night turned out right after-”

“Shut up, Niall,” Liam manages to pull away from Zayn’s mouth long enough to interrupt his friend and glare at him until he gets the hint to turn around and head back inside his apartment. Although the effect is probably ruined by Liam’s eyelids fluttering closed a couple times when Zayn’s suddenly free mouth starts to press soft, open-mouthed kisses along the underside of Liam’s jaw.

It does sort of make Liam realise, a little belatedly, that they  _are_  still standing in the middle of the hallway.

***

Zayn has almost recaptured Liam’s lips after their interruption by Niall, but he doesn’t quite let them meet, smiling widely into the small gap between them.

“So, you and Niall aren’t...”

***

“ _What?!_  No! I-  _no_.”

Liam has no idea where Zayn would have picked up such an idea, but he’s glad that the other boy seems satisfied by his outburst of an answer.

“Good.”

He leans in for another lock of lips but Liam pulls further back, almost disentangling himself from Zayn’s grip, smirking at the needy whine coming from the dark-haired boy, but already missing the contact himself.

Liam wraps his hand around the one which Zayn still has grasping Liam’s hip, and tugs.

“Inside.”

Zayn’s grin is agreement enough.

***

Zayn can’t help himself.

“Is that The Lion King?!”

And Liam’s answering blush has Zayn pressing him up against the barely shut front door before any further response can be uttered.

***


End file.
